The Unrequited Passion of Walter Cunningham, Jr
by Double Dog
Summary: House and Wilson watch an old movie together, and Wilson makes a slip of the tongue.


It was the flickering blue light of the television that finally got House out of bed. He'd been awake anyway, the dull ache in his leg a little worse than usual tonight. The light had played about his bedroom ceiling and walls like reflections from an aquarium; Wilson must be having about as much success sleeping as House. It had become obvious earlier that James really didn't want to go back to his empty townhouse, so he'd pulled out a pillow and blanket for his usual makeshift bed on the couch. He'd been doing this much more often lately, but whenever House had mentioned it, even in passing, Wilson had swiftly changed the subject. 

Sighing, he carefully swung his feet to the floor and reached for his cane. Levering himself up, he went into the living room. Sure enough, there was Wilson, eyes glued to an old black and white movie, the sound muted to a low mumble.

"Wasting my electricity again, eh Jimmy?" House said gruffly.

Wilson jumped, his head snapping around to look at his friend. "House! I'm sorry -- did I wake you?" He reached for the TV remote, but House waved him off.

"Already awake. Not you." House maneuvered his way around the couch and sat down next to Wilson. The couch held a faint scent of soap and aftershave. Wilson's scent. "What'cha watching? Who are these people?"

"_To Kill A Mockingbird_ ... don't you recognize it? Atticus Finch, Scout, Jem? Boo Radley?"

House leaned forward and grabbed a few kernels from the bowl of popcorn they'd shared the night before. "Oh. Yeah. Mutant inbred rednecks railroad a saintly, crippled black man in a judicial lynching. Delightful fare, Jimmy."

Wilson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. House smiled behind his hand. Maybe this late night wouldn't be a complete waste.

"It's a classic, House. Remember when we watched _Capote_ last week? Truman Capote's companion was Harper Lee? That's who wrote this."

House took another handful of stale popcorn. "Well, _technically_ speaking, Jimmy, Harper Lee wrote the book. Horton Foote wrote the screenplay." Even in the dark, he could feel James' irritation. Good.

"Fine." Wilson threw up his hands. "You know all about the film and you're just being ... yourself."

"Can't be any other way, Jimmy. The earth would spin off its axis."

"Wouldn't want that," Wilson mumbled, and they sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the movie.

"Kid's got anemia," House said. Wilson stirred.

"What are you talking about?"

House gestured towards the TV. Onscreen, the Finch's dinner guest, seven-year-old Walter Cunningham, Jr., was busy pouring maple syrup on his roast beef.

"Anemia. Or hypoglycemia."

Wilson stared at him. "You're diagnosing a _fictional character?"_

"Why not? It's better than diagnosing a real person -- fictional ones don't talk back." He munched some more popcorn, looking thoughtful. "Of course, it could just be stress. The kid probably gets chased around the barn by his 'funny uncle' a couple of times a month, when he can't catch the sheep."

_"House ..."_

"Well, look at him, Jimmy! The kid obviously has a raging sweet tooth!"

On the TV, Walter was staring at his dinnerplate, tears in his eyes, while Scout was escorted to the kitchen for a lecture on manners and tolerance.

"It doesn't mean he has a _disease_," Wilson said softly.

House hesitated, then took another helping of popcorn. _Hm ... this could get interesting,_ he thought, but all he said was, "No? What's wrong with him, then?"

This time the silence stretched out so long that House wasn't sure he would get an answer at all, and when it came it was in such a low tone that he almost (but not quite) stopped eating.

"A deficiency of happiness," Wilson said.

House stared at him.

"He's poor. His family can't afford what they undoubtedly consider luxuries -- little things like maple syrup, candy, whatever's store-bought. Hell, the kid probably gets one orange at Christmas and thinks it's the greatest gift ever. So when he's offered as much as he wants of something he craves, he takes more than he needs, because who knows when it'll come again? It's poverty, not only economic but spiritual. He has to steal happiness where I can find it."

A few more kernels of popcorn found their way into House's mouth.

"You said 'I'", he observed. Wilson looked at him.

"What?"

"You said 'steal happiness where **I** can find it.'"

"I did not."

"Did."

"Didn't."

"Okay, have it your way. You did."

"I ..." Wilson started, and then stopped, glaring at House, who was stretching his lanky frame like a lazy cat.

"So who or what are we really talking about here, Jimmy? Where are you finding happiness these days? Hmmmmm?"

Silence.

"Your job? Your ex-wives? Your left hand? Debbie from Accounting? Jenny in Admitting? Claire in Ambulatory Services?" He frowned. "Wait ... do you only date women from departments beginning with 'a'? You're working your way through the alphabet, aren't you?"

Wilson sat, tight-lipped.

House sighed. It wasn't as much fun when Jimmy wouldn't play. He glanced back at the television; a youthful Robert Duvall discovered behind the door, revealed as the mysterious Boo Radley. The movie was almost over.

"Okay," he said. "Just another puzzle to add to my James Wilson Collection, Jimmy. You know I'll solve it one day." He pulled himself to his feet and started back towards his bedroom.

Wilson watched him go.

_Yes, you will solve it one day,_ he thought. _And how will you diagnose me, when you realize I steal all my happiness with you?_

fin


End file.
